


Wir werden ihr eine Krankheit schenken

by Traumfrau



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Mutter AU, diary format, first person POV, plot bunny free to good home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27122173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Traumfrau/pseuds/Traumfrau
Summary: Just because you can play God, doesn’t mean you should...
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	1. Her

**Author's Note:**

> I had the idea to expand upon the vague hints of backstory that the boys gave us in the liner notes/art for Mutter, but then I wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. So consider this a plot bunny up for adoption...just please, tell me if you build off of it. I wanna see what other people do with it.

_From the lab notebook of Frau Doktor [REDACTED]—_

My beautiful boys.

In the sickly green light filtered through the transparent shells of the liquid oxygen chambers, they look so peaceful as they sleep. I wonder if they dream as they float in stasis. The printouts indicate neural activity, but who can be sure? If they do, I hope they’re pleasant dreams.

My six greatest accomplishments, lined up in their bubbling cocoons along the wall of my laboratory.

 _ **Subject 001 (“Till”), synthesized 4 Jan 63:**_ My first attempt at a synthetic life-form. I went too far with the growth hormones, I realized far too late. He is unfortunately aware of the size discrepancy between himself and the others. (Perhaps giving them fully-developed brains rather than rudimentary nervous systems was a mistake in retrospect, but I needed them to be able to follow directions.) He was created to be an experimental model of the ideal soldier, but he fears scaring the others with his size to the point that he has become shy and withdrawn, and has developed what seems to be an obsession with being seen as nonthreatening.

 ** _Subject 002 (“Paul”), synth. 9 Dec 64:_** I took the lessons I learned with Till and lowered the dosages. Unfortunately, I lowered them too far. Paul, while agile and quick of reflexes, is of below-average stature, which combined with the weight of a soldier’s most minimal gear becomes a liability. However, he has excellent eyesight and would make an incredible sniper...or at least, he did before that accident with the rifle. I reconstructed the side of his face as best I could, but I am far from a plastic surgeon. Thankfully, if the others have noticed, they have not ridiculed him.

 ** _Subject 003 (“Christoph”), synth. 11 May 66:_ **I finally got the hormone cocktail balanced properly. I think with Christoph, I have finally mastered the genotype necessary to produce the ideal combatant. Lean muscle mass allows for strength, endurance, flexibility, and agility. He has taken quite a liking to combat simulations. However, an unanticipated mutation led to uncontrolled growth of heart muscle outside the pericardium which has led to cardiac myoblast tumors throughout his chest. I only discovered this when it culminated in a pneumothorax. Thankfully, I was able to ablate the overgrowth of tissue with the use of a linear accelerator, although the strength of the radiation has left him with a midline scar on his chest. 

**_Subject 004 (“Christian”), synth. 16 Nov 66:_** Having accomplished my first goal, with Christian I began working on augmenting the human body beyond what can be done by traditional means. The implanted chest armor works beautifully, and best of all, aside from the scar running down his chest, you would never be able to detect it. I fear I have damaged Till’s psyche irreparably, however, forcing him to use his considerable strength to test out Christian’s armor. I don’t feel particularly regretful—however, this was one of the purposes behind his creation. Christian, for his part, does not seem to feel threatened...or show any outward displays of emotion of any kind. I suppose for a soldier, this would be a desirable trait.

 ** _Subject 005 (“Richard”), synth. 24 Jun 67:_** The attempt to create a hybrid between skin and scaled exoskeleton failed miserably. It only took in one area concentrated around his left forearm. Clearly I spliced the genes together incorrectly before injecting them into the pseudoembryo. Back to the drawing board, I suppose. Not entirely a waste, though, as aside from the ghastly appearance of his arm, he is quite classically handsome. Another area of potential inquiry, must revisit this thought at a later date.

 ** _Subject 006 (“Oliver”), synth. 11 Apr 71:_ **My last creation before the genomic repository discovered the true nature of my research and banned me. I knew this would be an eventuality. “Ethics committees” arbitrarily punishing visionaries they know they can never outshine. But it’s fine, I still have my six creations. Oliver is very tall. Very quiet, and very tall. MRI scan confirmed agenesis of the vocal chords, poor thing. And yet he seems to communicate exclusively through body language and the others seem to understand him instinctively. Fascinating phenomenon.

Everyone told me it was ridiculous to give them proper names. That there was no reason to, that I would only get attached to these ‘things’ I created.

Perhaps, in hindsight, they were correct. I must admit, I have grown quite fond towards them.

It’s too late.

I am attached.

_I am Mutter._


	2. Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She isn’t the only one with something to say.

**Subject 001**

Every time she puts us in stasis, I have the same dream. I am laying on her surgical table, my limbs taken from me. I am merely a torso and a head, completely dependent upon her and at the mercy of her whims. Sometimes I am ignored. Sometimes I am treated as a plaything—a pincushion for her needles, or something for the others to look upon in revulsion as she measures their responses to the horror that I am.

I have read all of the psychology books on her shelf numerous times. They say that when you have a recurring nightmare, it is the deepest, darkest part of your mind that you cannot even access at will, doing its best to pace and fret about what you fear most.

I fear her.

This woman in the white coat who made me this way, and makes us all call her “Mutter.”

I have never had a mother, an actual mother. But I know they are not like this.

* * *

**Subject 002**

I’m just glad I’m not alone.

Till is afraid of me. Rather...he is afraid that I am afraid of him. Of his size.

I feel safest when he and Richard are around.

Till is a gentle giant. He will not hurt her, but he unflinchingly takes all the hurt intended for me. She cannot harm him, solely by grace of the willpower that allows him to simply not be harmed. He is an unmovable object, and she is a pitifully weak force, indeed.

Richard, on the other hand, is who I think of when I try to conceptualize “motherly.” So strong, and yet so soft. I know he is always in agony, and yet, after my accident, he was the first one by my side, rendering aid while Mutter fell into hysterics that she would be found out and the torture chamber she called her laboratory would be taken from her.

He couldn’t save my eye. I don’t fault him for it, despite the fact that he has shouldered the guilt, it wasn’t his carelessness that caused the damage. But now he always remains by my left side, acting as my peripheral vision. My guardian angel.

* * *

**Subject 003**

I can feel it spreading again. Like tentacles beneath the surface...or maybe a starving python. Creeping through my chest, ready to wrap around my lungs until the world fades away. This time, I hope she doesn’t slice them free.

Christian and I have matching scars. His, from when Monster—I know what that...woman...wants to be called but I refuse—slid the armored plates beneath his skin and fused them to his ribs.

Mine, from the unforeseen consequences of her meddling with nature. Christian’s is an incision, carefully stitched back together. I am marred by the scar of a radiation burn, stretching from sternum to where my navel should be. Would be, if this was a different life, one with freedom, and more than anything, the freedom from this rage at having been created.

She jokes that I just have too much heart for one person.

I don’t think it’s funny.

* * *

**Subject 004**

The others are angry.

I cannot blame them, but I see what they cannot, that anger is an unproductive emotion. It will not free us, it will not stop her, it will only lead to further despair. She is cruel, and I would have preferred to remain an unrealized idea, but I cannot change reality.

Besides, what is there, out there, for my brothers and I? We are violations of nature, all of us. We were created anonymously, have never seen the sunlight or felt the autumn breeze for ourselves, and we shall die as little more than footnotes in a paper that will never be accepted for publication.

It will be as if we never existed, like we always wished for.

* * *

**Subject 005**

My arm is burning. My arm has always burned. These fucking scales, erupting from my flesh and yet slicing into it all the same.

I claw at it, this gruesome aberration, trying to tear it from me, hoping it will grow back more normal, more human. Bloody crimson paints my nails as they bite into my arm, until she stops me.

Mutter always stops me, straps me down to the same table that causes Till to scream until he tears his throat apart. My arms are bound with the sort of restraints they use in asylums to keep the insane from hurting themselves. I’m not insane. I am desperate.

She tells me I was synthesized—not ‘born,’ mind you—in 1967. Have you ever been in inescapable, indescribable agony for 34 years? One day, I will succeed. If I have to shred the skin from my bones with a knife, then I will pick it up. If I have to rip my shoulder apart to toss this wretched flesh into the furnace, that’s what I shall do.

One day. When she isn’t watching.

But she is always watching.

* * *

**Subject 006**

I have no larynx, and I must scream.

She pities me in my silence. But I am the lucky one. She pokes and prods the others, forever demanding a commentary upon their experiences. I am largely forgotten. I have learned to crawl into the most remote crevices of myself, to sever the sound waves of the others’ agony before they reach my consciousness.

I am the disappointment lurking in the corner, ignored. So I lie in wait. Watching. Plotting.

She foolishly assumes that in my silence, I have foregone all attempts to communicate.

I can write.

My brothers can read.

This nightmare ends _tonight_.


End file.
